Variegation
by Dead Poet
Summary: A series of 21 drabbles in three parts, prompted by colors, ranging from the exceedingly serious to the utterly silly.
1. Part I: Red

**Disclaimer: **I could tell you that I own these characters, but that would be lying. And V would not approve.

**A/N: **This series is presented in three parts--Part I taking place prior to the film/graphic novel, Part II during the timeframe of the film/graphic novel, and Part III in my own AU post-movie world.

Part I

_Red_

For days, the only color he could see was red.

At first, he didn't notice. This place was so horribly drab, so monochromatic. Sarabande in Grey. The absence of color was hardly unusual.

He stood in a long line, awaiting another injection. A woman at the front had apparently become suicidal. She lunged at the doctor.

The guards had her on the floor in seconds. They beat her, with fists and truncheons; kicked her, in the stomach and the head.

Bright, red, fresh blood stood in stark relief against grey floors, grey walls, grey flesh.

He saw nothing but red.


	2. Part I: Orange

_Orange_

_"Why orange?"_ was his first thought as they tossed the scrap of clothing at him.

"Could I have a different color?" he wanted to ask. "This one seems inappropriate."

Instead, he silently watched them shut the door, then wriggled into the rough, scratchy garment.

He smiled.

It was uncomfortable. It was an awful color. But he treasured it.

After all they'd taken in the past hours, they'd finally given him something back. It may have been merely a scrap, but a scrap of dignity was better than none at all.

Shortly thereafter, he received an answer to his initial inquiry.


	3. Part I: Yellow

_Yellow_

He knew nothing about the stuff they periodically forced into his veins, except that it was yellow.

And that he hated it.

And that sometimes it made him feel like there were worms crawling around beneath his skin.

At one point, he'd become utterly convinced that there was, in fact, something there and that, if he could just get it out, the disturbing sensation would stop.

Hours later he sat sobbing in frustration, deep, red, furrows in his arm, blood and bits of flesh beneath his finger nails.

The young woman who bandaged his wounds, at least, looked sufficiently horrified.


	4. Part I: Green

_Green_

The doctor was talking, rambling incessantly. He was fairly certain she had asked him a question. He didn't care.

She didn't exist.

Not her, or her drugs, or her prison.

There was no Larkhill. There was no room five.

There was only green.

In a single moment, the world had condensed, shrunken down and transformed. So too had all the senses--sound and smell, touch and taste.

He heard and smelled green. Tasted and felt green. He saw only green.

The world was a leaf.

And for the first time, the world was full of promise.

The world was his.


	5. Part I: Blue

_Blue_

He remembers nothing about his life.

He remembers "Rhapsody in Blue."

He can't recall having heard the song, but he knows every note.

It comes to him one night, as he sits in his favorite corner, desperately seeking a distraction. And as the tune bounces merrily through his mind, he can't help but laugh--hysterically.

He laughs until he cries, until his body shakes with heavy, heaving sobs.

And then, he screams--as loudly as he can. But it isn't enough. He can still hear the woman down the hall screaming, pleading.

"No! Dear God, Please! Don't take my baby!"


	6. Part I: Indigo

_Indigo_

This night, all was beauty--the gas and fire and rubble; the screaming and pain and burning bodies. Death and Life. Justice and Liberty.

But most beautiful of all, was the sky.

It was a deep, moonless night. As he gazed up at the celestial glory, he could almost see the hands of deity weaving the fabric of sky, dying it deepest indigo, and carefully placing each brilliant diamond star.

And in that moment--as he raised both arms and voice in salute--he merged with those stars, that sky, the deity.

He became a god.


	7. Part I: Violet

_Violet_

Her smile had been almost friendly as she handed him the greenhouse catalog and told him he could choose whatever he liked.

He gave her a smile of his own--the one that always made her a bit uneasy.

He didn't thank her.

The moment he was alone, he settled into his corner, raised the book to his nose, and inhaled deeply.

Paper. There was something familiar about the scent, and he was sure he had always loved it.

He spent the next few minutes searching for roses and the next few hours staring at the picture of violet carsons.


	8. Part II: Red

Part II

_Red_

_Red sky at night..._

The old axiom flits through his mind as he stands on the rooftop, looking out across a London colored odd by the blood-red sunset.

"Well," he says aloud to no one but his ever-present internal companion, "at least we'll have good weather."

_"Indeed,"_ his companion replies. _"And a good thing too. There's nothing like rain to ruin a revolution."_

His smile is bittersweet as he watches night fall. The last night of the London That Is, for tomorrow, this London shall die and he with it.

Months ago, he was more than ready. But now...


	9. Part II: Orange

_Orange_

He brings her toast and orange juice--and another box of tissues.

"Thank you, V," she says with a miserable sniffle before she is racked by another coughing fit.

He quickly brushes off her gratitude and asks if there is anything else she needs. She can't help but notice that he is already halfway out the door.

She looks at him with a playful grin. "You know, you don't have to keep me in quarantine. It's just a cold. It's probably not even contagious."

"I know," he says quietly. "I just don't like to see you suffer."

Her smile fades.


	10. Part II: Yellow

_Yellow_

The longer she lives underground, the more she appreciates the mornings and the way he always manages to bring a bit of the sunshine in. Whether it's the vibrant yellow of eggs or the paler shade of butter or the bright orange juice he sometimes serves alongside the tea, there is always, at least a splash of solar color.

She can't help but wonder if he still cooked sunny, yellow eggs in his brightly flowered apron before she arrived.

One morning, he serves her grey oatmeal and brown tea.

As if by way of explanation, he says, "It is raining."


	11. Part II: Green

_Green_

Eric Finch remembers his mother singing as she did the wash. _My wild Irish rose..._

He sees his little boy self entranced by her lilting voice and the fresh, clean linens billowing in the breeze.

He sees a young man full of hopes and dreams falling head over heels for a girl named Catherine with smiling green eyes.

He sees a vibrant, happy boy--so much like himself at that age--so sweet, so carefree, so perfect it makes his heart swell just to look at him.

He sees an tired, jaded, old man who sees nothing but ghosts.


	12. Part II: Blue

_Blue_

She doesn't recall having told him when her birthday was, but as she makes her way into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning, she find V waiting with her favorite breakfast and a small, round cake frosted in pale yellow with little, blue candy flowers.

She tries to look nonchalant as she wipes at suddenly tear-filled eyes and to keep her voice steady as she says, "Thank you, V."

She doesn't fool him for a second. She can tell by the sympathetic tilt of the mask.

After a moment, she looks up inquisitively.

"V... Where are the candles?"


	13. Part II: Indigo

_Indigo_

It seems every time he goes out for food, he always brings back some sort of particularly rare treat. This time, it is blueberries.

Evey gasps as he hands her the small plastic container.

"I _love_ blueberries!"

She promptly sits and pops a plump berry into her mouth.

V sits across from her and plucks one of the berries from its container, gazing at it contemplatively.

He sighs.

"Blueberries... What a mundane name."

Evey frowns at him. "Seems logical. They _are_ berries, and they _are_ blue..."

"No. They're not."

She laughs incredulously. "Oh really? What color _are_ they then?"

"Indigo."


	14. Part II: Violet

_Violet_

There is nothing to mark the passage of days. Nothing but bruises.

She watches, day by day, as they fade from blues and violets to greens and yellows and browns.

They become her calendar. For a time.

It soon becomes far to confusing to keep track of them all.

She still gazes at them contemplatively from time to time.

She begins to worry about her sanity.

Her leg is still throbbing. A blow to the shin as punishment for nearly tripping Rossiter.

She is suddenly fascinated by the violent violet reminder.

How can something that hurts so much be so beautiful?


	15. Part III: Red

Part III

_Red_

He lets her clean, so long as she stays clear of anything valuable or breakable--which limits her mostly to the kitchen and bathroom.

He let her cook once--and hovered over her shoulder the entire time making suggestions and corrections until, at last, she handed him the spoon and sat down to watch.

Doing the dishes would ruin her hands.

Taking out the trash is simply beneath her.

After weeks of harassment, he finally consents to let her do the laundry.

She emerges, chuckling, eyebrow raised.

"Red silk?"

He snatches them.

"_I'll_ finish the laundry. Go... clean the bathroom."


	16. Part III: Orange

_Orange_

The rough, orange scrap that had clothed her during the torturous weeks of her reformation lies hidden in the bottom of an old trunk.

Every time he begins to feel good about himself--every time he begins to think of himself as a decent, loving human being--he takes it out.

He stares at the familiar fabric, at the bloodstains that were never washed out. And he remembers.

The list of atrocities is long and he relives every one, counting with tears, like beads on a rosary.

He doesn't hear the door; doesn't know she's watching; doesn't hear her leave.


	17. Part III: Yellow

_Yellow_

Evey is appalled to learn that he has never had lemonade.

"Never?"

"At least, not that I recall," he mutters.

He watches with great interest as she seizes the very lemons that started the conversation and slices, squeezes, sugars, and stirs her way to summery yellow perfection.

When she suggests that they head up to the roof--as warm weather and bright summer sun are the perfect accompaniments to lemonade--him informs her, a bit too casually, that the lift has been malfunctioning.

A moment of concern, then a smirk.

"Elevator doesn't go all the way to the top, eh?"


	18. Part III: Green

_Green_

Evey can't stifle a giggle at the scene before her--a masked man, turkey in hand, singing "Deck the Halls," wearing a red and green apron.

They eat, laugh, sing carols, and share smiles--of a sort.

Then it is time for gifts. V already has a neatly wrapped box in hand, but Evey insists on going first.

She hands him a slip of paper.

It reads, "I love you, V."

He says nothing, merely stares at her, then turns his gaze to the suddenly meager box and the suddenly meaningless gift it contains.

He reaches for the masks straps.


	19. Part III: Blue

_Blue_

She doesn't know that his eyes are blue.

She doesn't know that she reacquainted him with fear.

She doesn't know that she reminds him of someone he doesn't remember.

She doesn't know that when he wakes every morning, he expects her to be gone.

She doesn't know that part of him is disappointed when she isn't.

She doesn't know that when he says, "I love you," he wonders if it's true.

She doesn't know that, as she settles her head against his chest with a contented sigh, beneath the mask, he weeps.

She doesn't know how much she doesn't know.


	20. Part III: Indigo

_Indigo_

He argues vehemently against it. But arguing with a woman about shopping is nearly as productive as shouting at the deaf.

She leaves, bright and early, wallet in hand.

He has begun to worry when she finally returns, smiling and lugging a preponderance of bags--full, he is sure, of things she desperately needed. Like shoes.

"I got you something," she says with a grin, setting the bags on the table.

He stares in utter disbelief as she hold up a pair of blue jeans--the dark, indigo sort.

"Go try them on!"

With a deep sense of dread, he obeys.


	21. Part III: Vioet

_Violet_

Relationships are about compromise. She lets him keep some secrets. He lets her have some answers.

Every Saturday, they play their own version of Twenty Questions. It is enlightening for her. It is unnerving for him.

After what happened last week, she decides to take things easy. Simple questions. No probing.

It is amazing all the little things she finds she still doesn't know.

He normally gives the most concise answer possible. When she inquires as to his favorite book, she gets his top 50.

"What is your favorite color?"

"Violet."

She rolls her eyes. "V, you are _so_ predictable."


End file.
